


Favour and Failure

by EmmyJay



Series: Ivory Ascending [7]
Category: The Dark Crystal (1982), The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Blood and Injury, Gen, Imprisonment, Manipulation, Physical Abuse, Public Humiliation, Seladon Gets Beat Up Like A Lot, Violence, Vomiting, skekSil Is Pulling Strings, skekVar Is Not Happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-07 03:43:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21451480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyJay/pseuds/EmmyJay
Summary: The General has returned from the Sog.  The Chamberlain is scheming.  And Seladon survives.
Relationships: Seladon & skekSil (Dark Crystal)
Series: Ivory Ascending [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528451
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title: The Part Where Seladon Gets The Crap Beaten Out Of Her.

Healing came slowly, inside and out. Even armed with her new knowledge, the assurance of allies, Seladon still woke in the night with hungry eyes staring from inside her own lids, flailing to fight off the memory of claws and teeth and sobbing into the darkness—sometimes alone, sometimes with the Chamberlain fussing at her bedside, comfort she knew to be false but folded into all the same. If he was there, he would gather her into his lap, shushing and humming until she fell asleep once again, hating how accustomed she'd become to the smell of his robes.

_"Thra has trials for all of us,"_ her mother's voice came to her one night as she sat in bed, hunched over and trembling from yet another nightmare. _"Survive this, and you will grow, and be stronger for it."_

_'No,'_ Seladon thought madly back, _'surviving this will not make me stronger. I will survive because I was already strong, and owe the Skeksis nothing.'_

A comb had been brought to her in the days following the Emperor's attentions—a different one, without the tapered end, so useless as a weapon (no doubt by design). The Chamberlain tended to her hair in the evenings while she sat obediently in his lap, surprised to find he needed no instruction on method. Where had he learned this skill, she wondered? Not on himself, surely, wispy and thin as the hair at the back of his head was; nor could Seladon remember seeing anything more substantial on the other Skeksis (with exception, of course, for the Ornamentalist—and she could hardly imagine that one permitting the Chamberlain to tend to his carefully-maintained appearance).

Aside from the Chamberlain's visits, Seladon's only other contact with the Skeksis was with the Emperor himself. There was no discernible pattern to his summons that she could tell. Nor was there any consistency to his company: some nights he would be content merely to touch her, raking talons through her hair and between her wings; others, he used her for purposes more carnal, leaving her crippled by pain and misery the next day. He might feed her Essence, or he might merely consume it himself. Once he had summoned her to eat in his presence, only to dismiss her the moment she had finished, without ever speaking a word or laying a hand on her.

And each time the Chamberlain escorted her to and from the Emperor's chamber, effectively preventing Seladon from taking the opportunity to search for a means of escape—to her ever-growing frustration.

_"I'll help,"_ she'd told the Ascendancy, _"anything that I can do, any price I have to pay."_ Such was her duty as All-Maudra, leader of the Gelfling, and yet she had yet to devise a means **how**. Even if she were to make a run for it on the rare occasion the Podlings brought her meal without the Chamberlain present, she did not know the upper levels of the Castle well enough not to be lost. Any one of the Skeksis could overtake her easily if she was caught, and she was not fool enough to believe she would be granted a second opportunity.

_'I should have fled when I had the chance,'_ she thought bitterly, thinking back to the window above the Emperor's bed the one time she had been alone in his chamber, the forest and freedom visible beyond it. But furious though she was at her past self's inaction, she could not fault her her misery. _'What's done is done. I must keep my eyes forward, not behind.'_

When not in either Skeksis' presence, Seladon remained locked in her room, listening for the distant sounds of activity about the castle to tell her of time's passing. At least she was no longer alone; the Threader came to her often, waiting until the Chamberlain had departed before crawling from whichever dark corner it had hidden itself in. There were times she woke to find it settled beside her on the pillow as she slept. It was a balm for her nightmares on those nights, offering no words but grounding her all the same with its presence. And though it had not attached itself to her again, the knowledge of it was a comfort she had long yearned for; with it there, her sister was always within arm's reach.

Or at least—one of them was.

_Brea_. Where was she now? Tavra had said she didn't know where their littlest sister was, and Seladon had heard the distress in her tone to admit it. She knew Brea had escaped the Lords' carriage from Ha'rar, the custody Seladon herself had condemned her to. She only hoped that Brea remained free, perhaps in the company of those friends of hers.

_'Chaos-bringers, the lot of them,'_ she thought to herself. It was no longer an insult.

\---

Seladon's first indication that something had once again changed came in the form of shouting, a rancorous display of anger echoing throughout what felt like the entire castle. The voice she recognised as belonging to the General, and the source of his rage she could guess easily enough: the Ascendancy had told her, after all, of the Arathim's intended betrayal at the Sog. She closed her eyes, letting her ears drink in the sound of his failure, satisfaction warming her stomach.

It was only when the shouts grew nearer, and she heard her title spat like venom among them, that her satisfaction turned to fear.

The door to her room was nearly blown off its hinges when the General barreled inside, seemingly filling the entire space with his anger and sheer bulk. There was half a moment where Seladon stood her ground; but when he began stalking toward her, closing the space between them in enormous strides, her composure failed, and she fled to the far corner of the room, stopped only by the hand that seized her hair and wrenched her back, twisting her around to face him.

"You," he snarled, his breath stinking when it washed over her face. He gave her a shake, and Seladon cried out when the movement ripped at her scalp. "Did you know of the Arathim's betrayal when you sent us to the Drenchen? Talk, Gelfling!"

She did know now, of course—the Ascendancy itself had told her as much. But she had **not** known it at the time, when the Emperor had forced the name from her with a hand around her throat. So it was not truly a lie when she shook her head, as much as she could in the General's iron grip.

"I named the Drenchen at the Emperor's command," she said, holding the General's gaze, and prided herself when her voice did not tremble. "I did not know of any betrayal. How could I?"

The hulking Skeksis' eyes bored into her own, his massive size filling her vision. It occured to Seladon that this was the last sight that Mayrin had seen: staring down this colossal monster, shouting in defiance with a bravery she now sought to match. The General searched her face carefully, his hard breaths coming in snorts—and as Seladon recalled her mother's fate, she realised her own peril.

"This **is** your doing," he growled lowly, the hand in her hair twisting tighter. "The Chamberlain was right."

_'The Chamberlain?'_

Her mouth was open to ask for clarification, but any words were replaced by a scream as the General began to wrench her along by the hair. Out of the room he took her, down the castle corridors, snarling and spitting to himself all the while of treachery and deceit, the insidious scourge that were the Gelfling. Seladon stumbled to keep up with him, but her feet slipped beneath her on the stones, legs too short to properly keep pace with his strides, and she found herself dragged by the handful of strands in his fist; wondered, hysterically, if he meant to tear her head from her shoulders

The corridors opened into the throne room, and with growing dread she recognised the voices of the other Skeksis within, reacting to her presence with a mixture of curiosity and excitement.

"General!" That was the Chamberlain's voice, and from her peripheral Seladon saw him moving quickly toward them. "What is meaning of this? Surely you cannot—"

The General lashed out with his free hand, and the Chamberlain's words cut off with a pained shriek. The others gathered about the room began to whoop and laugh, and Seladon heard the _click_ing of many talons clapping together in delight.

"Get out, weakling," the larger Skeksis bellowed. "This does not concern you!"

There was no rebuttal from the Chamberlain. Seladon twisted in the General's grasp, trying to turn herself enough to see him properly, but all she could glimpse was the sight of his red-robed form retreating. When the General tossed her to the floor moments later, she found no sign of his presence—only the circle of other Skeksis closing in around her, the General looming large and impenetrable at their center, a position horribly, viscerally familiar.

"My Lords," she greeted shakily, pushing herself as close to standing as she could; already she felt bruises forming on her side from the impact with the floor, scalp aching where her hair had been nearly torn from it. "I am...honoured, to stand before you once again. Please, whatever need you have of me—"

The armored fist that drove into her stomach silenced all the rest of Seladon's words. Barely a moment later the other struck her across the cheek, sending her spinning back to the floor in a haze of pain. By some miracle she broke her own fall, palms stinging with the impact; a heavy foot came down upon her back, and there were talons there as well to dig sharply into her, pressing her face-down into the floor.

"Treacherous Gelfling!" The General's voice was thick with contempt, nearly frothing with anger. Beyond it, Seladon could hear the other Skeksis shrieking with laughter, though any words they spoke did not register through the ringing in her skull. "Coward! An honourless wretch, like the rest of your kind!"

The pressure on her back lifted, and Seladon felt her bones creak with relief. But any reprieve was short-lived as one of the General's hands fisted in her hair, and he flung her aside like a toy, her body rolling violently across the stone floor.

"My Lord," she gasped, and tasted blood around the words. "My Lord, please, mercy—"

The foot came again, kicking her in the side, and the bland porridge that had been Seladon's breakfast spilled out of her onto the floor. She heaved a second time, but all that came up next was blood, painting whorls of pink through the half-digested slop.

_'He's killing me.'_ The thought came wildly, another blow to her side following as if in confirmation. _'He's killing me, Mother—just like he killed you.'_ A sound like a wretched animal escaped her, half a sob and half a scream, and she heard the Collector's high-pitched voice mock her from somewhere near. Another blow, this one to roll her onto her back, and the world spinning made her heave again, turning her head to cough what little she could onto the floor.

Above her the General trembled, coiled so tight with fury she wondered if he might burst like a rancid pustule before her eyes.

"I think it's time someone taught you a lesson, worm," he snarled, and the sing of metal as he unsheathed his blade turned Seladon's blood to ice. "I will take great pleasure in being the one to do it!"

The sword swung over his head, his face contorted in ugly rage. Seladon screamed, hands flying in front of her in a useless attempt to shield.

"**GENERAL**."

The blow never came.

The laughter around them died abruptly; the General spun away to face the door, where the Emperor stood nearly incandescent with his own fury. And to his side crept the Chamberlain, looking openly delighted by the sight before him.

"S-sire!" The General dropped to one knee, head bowed in supplication. His sword fell to the side, forgotten. "I was—"

"I can _see_ what you were doing, General." The Emperor's voice was cold, and the other Skeksis drew back in open fear at its sound. "What I cannot see is why you believed the Gelfling was yours to touch."

The exchange continued—the General stumbling through an answer, the Emperor icily rebuffing him. But Seladon heard none of their words, because the Chamberlain was above her, drowning her line of sight in shades of crimson. He gathered her in his arms, shushing gently when she cried out in pain, and bore her from the throne room as the voices began to rise, leaving the scene far behind.

"Do not fret, Beloved," he crooned into her hair. "All is well, now."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seladon has a few words to say to the Chamberlain.

The Chamberlain did not return. Instead, the Podling servants brought the ointments to Seladon's room, leaving them at her bedside to tend to her own injuries—a task more difficult than initially imagined. She was barely flexible enough to reach all of the spots she needed, and her injuries only hindered her movement further. After some time of trying, she eventually gave up on smearing the ointment on all of her cuts and bruises, and only hoped there was nothing that would fester.

It was not the primary reason why Seladon wondered if her angering the Chamberlain was a mistake, but it was certainly one of them.

Unbidden her mind returned to the one who had called himself **friend**, a lie she had nearly come to believe despite knowing full well its falsehood. _'More falsehoods than I could have imagined,'_ she thought with a chill, recalling how his voice and manner had shifted so drastically. Skeksis could not alter their form, to Seladon's knowledge. But what she had seen in the Chamberlain—_skekSil_—had come terrifyingly close.

Did the Emperor know? He must, she reasoned, surely he could not be so ignorant of his own. But what of the others? So often she had heard disparaging remarks about the "whimpering Chamberlain," comments on the grating whine of his voice. No, she decided; they could not know, they would not speak of him with such open contempt if they did. It was a secret skekSil kept to himself—and now, to her.

Secrets were power, Seladon knew, though she could not fathom what use to her this one might be.

With a sigh she lowered herself to lie atop her bed, trying to find some comfortable position. It hardly mattered what she knew about the Chamberlain now, she supposed. Perhaps if he had revealed himself earlier, she might have been able to craft some plan, but that was no longer an option. The Chamberlain was finished with her, her use to him fulfilled; she had lost her only ally in the castle. She was alone.

A soft scuttling noise reached her ears from one of the many darkened corners, and when she turned her head she saw the Threader emerge, come to see her as it so often did.

_'No,'_ she thought triumphantly, and lowered a hand to help it onto the bed. _'I am not alone.'_

\---

Sleep was difficult to come, every position she lay in aggravating one injury or another. But when sheer exhaustion finally won out against the pain, there were no eyes waiting in Seladon's dreams.

Instead she knelt in the Castle's throne room, the shattered remnants of her delicately-crafted Garthic crown scattered about her. She blinked, and the shards became the pieces of the Living Crown, glinting in the harsh violent light that came from somewhere unknown. She reached for them, instinct telling her to put them together, to reconstruct what she had broken. But the pieces seemed to flee before her fingertips, growing only farther away the more she stretched.

"Here," said a familiar voice, "let me help.

Maudra Fara's fingers grasped her own, the Rock-Singer kneeling opposite (how had Seladon not noticed her before?). In her free hand she held the circlet base of the crown, and she offered it to Seladon with determined eyes.

"This is yours."

She blinked again, and a crowd of Gelfling surrounded them: the Spriton with the green-gold eyes, the husband whispering to their childling, her lover by the horn—countless more behind them, faces she could not name. All of them gathered, a piece of the crown cradled in their hands; one by one they knelt, joining their pieces together (too many pieces, too many hands, too many for just the one crown, and yet—) until the Living Crown lay complete in Seladon's lap. Another blink and it rested on her brow, its weight heavy but right, as though her head had been too light without it.

"You must have no doubts," Fara spoke, "only courage. The All-Maudra is strong for her people."

The light flickered out, leaving them in shadow. And as the scene faded, Seladon felt the other Maudra's lips brush her forehead, just below where the crown rested.

_"Make your mother proud."_

\---

A light scratching at her unbruised cheek woke Seladon, her eyes fluttering open just in time to see the Threader leap from her pillow to the floor, skittering away across the stones. A moment later, and she realised she could hear wailing from somewhere within the castle, high-pitched and dramatic.

_'Has the General's punishment begun?'_ she wondered, recalling the Chamberlain mentioning the Emperor's displeasure, and even before that his talk of consequences for failure. Except this voice did not belong to the General. Indeed, now she listened, it sounded more like the Ornamentalist, caught up in some terrible anguish. _'What is going on?'_

Gingerly, wary of her injuries, Seladon pushed herself to sitting. She felt her abused bones creak, stiffened by the stillness of her sleep, but the ache from the bruises had faded (the balms had done their job in that regard, at least). Her Friend she found after a moment of looking, on the floor in front of the door, and she slipped from her bed (more creaking, more wincing) to join it, crouching down at its side. Its whole body was rigid, leaf-like limbs extended as far as they could to lift its body vertically off the floor; its gaze was fixed on the door, and it twitched with every sound echoing from without.

"You hear it, too," Seladon commented, and its entire body seemed to vibrate in response. _'That's a yes.'_ She stroked its back with her fingertips, and it made a soft noise of distress—although judging by how it pushed itself into her touch, she was not the source.

How long they sat there, Seladon did not know; it felt like hours, but without a reference to judge by, she could not accurately say. At some point the sounds moved deeper into the Castle, becoming fainter, though if she strained she could still make out the occasional shriek or anguished wail. Later still a new voice joined them, though it did not carry as far as the others, contributing only the occasional half-familiar note to the echoes. It caught the Threader's attention, and the creature moved toward the door; nearly there it paused, turning back to Seladon to ask without words.

"Do you need to go?" It dipped once in the affirmative. "Go, then. See what's happening."

Once the Threader had gone, Seladon saw no need to remain kneeling on the hard stone. Changing her position proved a harder task than anticipated, however, as the ache in her bones fought against her attempts to stand, and in the end she crawled across the floor, dragging herself back into bed.

_'The All-Maudra must stand tall,'_ her mother's voice scolded for it, but Seladon ignored the thought—so long as there was no one here to witness it, she would do whatever it took to return to someplace where, at the very least, the surface she lay upon would be soft.

Another indeterminable period passed then, wherein Seladon listened with ears straining for any clues as to the events transpiring in the Castle dungeons (for that was where they must have been, to sound so muffled and distant). At the same time she listened for the tell-tale scuttling of her Threader friend returning with news. Perhaps when it shared it with her, she would be able to speak with Tavra again. She did long for a familiar voice...

At last there came the sound of approaching footsteps, though they were far too heavy by landstrider leaps to be her Threader. There was growling from the figure outside as it fumbled with her door, fighting the key into the lock; snarling in rage when that was apparently a tremendously difficult task.

It was the General's voice at her door, and Seladon's blood ran cold in her veins.

The lock _clicked_, the door swung inward, and Seladon beheld skekVar's hulking silhouette for the second time in as many days. He bore what appeared to be a heap of fabric over one shoulder, which he jostled as he pushed open the door with the other—this, apparently, being the cause for his difficulty with the key, though Seladon was hardly of a mind to consider what it might be.

_'The Chamberlain was wrong,'_ she thought instead. _'The Emperor was not displeased, he did not **care**, and now he has returned to finish what he started.'_ The General stepped just inside the room, and despite herself, despite Fara's voice in her head, _the All-Maudra is strong_—Seladon cowered, shrinking further into her bedding as she braced herself for another outburst of violence.

And yet the General barely sneered at her. Instead he tossed his burden to the floor, fabric landing heavily on the stones, before slamming the door shut, the lock _click_ing once again. The pile shifted, groaning, and with a start Seladon realised it was a Gelfling; they raised their head, and though the face was half-hidden in shadow, there was no mistaking its familiar features.

"Seladon?" it asked, blearily—a voice Seladon knew so well, so dear, so clever.

"_Brea_?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the YA novels, it's revealed that skekSil's simpering is an act he puts on. His real voice is described as "dark and heavy"; I've chosen here to use the normal speaking voice of Simon Pegg (his VA in AoR) as a baseline.


	3. Chapter 3

The Chamberlain did not return. Instead, the Podling servants brought the ointments to Seladon's room, leaving them at her bedside to tend to her own injuries—a task more difficult than initially imagined. She was barely flexible enough to reach all of the spots she needed, and her injuries only hindered her movement further; after some time of trying, she eventually gave up on smearing the ointment on all of her cuts and bruises, and only hoped there was nothing that would fester.

It was not the primary reason why Seladon wondered if her angering the Chamberlain was a mistake; but it was certainly one of them.

Unbidden her mind returned to the one who had called himself **friend**, a lie she had nearly come to believe despite knowing full well its falsehood. _'More falsehoods than I could have imagined,'_ she thought with a chill, recalling how his voice and manner had shifted so drastically. Skeksis could not alter their form, to Seladon's knowledge. But what she had seen in the Chamberlain—_skekSil_—had come terrifyingly close.

Did the Emperor know? He must, she thought, surely he could not be so ignorant of his own. But what of the others? So often she had heard disparaging remarks about the "whimpering Chamberlain," comments on the grating whine of his voice. No, she decided; they could not know, they would not speak of him with such open contempt if they did. It was a secret skekSil kept to himself—and now, to her.

Secrets were power, Seladon knew, though she could not fathom what use to her this one might be.

With a sigh she lowered herself to lie atop her bed, trying to find some comfortable position. It hardly mattered what she knew about the Chamberlain now, she supposed. Perhaps if he had revealed himself earlier, she might have been able to craft some plan, but that was no longer an option. The Chamberlain was finished with her, her use to him fulfilled; she had lost her only ally in the castle. She was alone.

A soft scuttling noise reached her ears from one of the many darkened corners, and when she turned her head she saw she Threader emerge, come to see her as it so often did.

_'No,'_ she thought triumphantly, and lowered a hand to help it onto the bed. _'I am not alone.'_

\---

Sleep was difficult to come, every position she lay in aggravating one injury or another. But when sheer exhaustion finally won out against the pain, there were no eyes waiting in Seladon's dreams.

Instead she knelt in the Castle's throne room, the shattered remnants of her delicately-crafted crown scattered about her. She blinked, and the shards became the pieces of the Living Crown, glinting in the harsh violent light that came from somewhere unknown. She reached for them, instinct telling her to put them together, to reconstruct what she had broken. But the pieces seemed to flee before her fingertips, growing only farther away the more she stretched.

"Here," said a familiar voice, "let me help.

Maudra Fara's fingers grasped her own, the Rock-Singer kneeling opposite (how had Seladon not noticed her before?). In her free hand she held the circlet base of the crown, and she offered it to Seladon with determined eyes.

"This is yours."

She blinked again, and a crowd of Gelfling surrounded them: the guard with the green-gold eyes, the husband whispering to their childling, her lover by the horn—countless more behind them, faces she could not name. All of them gathered, a piece of the crown cradled in their hands; one by one they knelt, joining their pieces together (too many pieces, too many hands, too many for just the one crown, and yet—) until the Living Crown lay complete in Seladon's lap. Another blink and it rested on her brow, its weight heavy but right, as though her head had been too light without it.

"You must have no doubts," Fara spoke, "only courage. The All-Maudra is strong for her people."

The light flickered out, leaving them in shadow. And as the scene faded, Seladon felt the other Maudra's lips brush her forehead, just below where the crown rested.

_"Make your mother proud."_

\---

A light scratching at her unbruised cheek woke Seladon, her eyes fluttering open just in time to see her Threader friend leap from her pillow to the floor, skittering away across the stones. A moment later, and she realised she could hear wailing from somewhere within the castle, high-pitched and dramatic.

_'Has the General's punishment begun?'_ she wondered, recalling the Chamberlain mentioning the Emperor's displeasure, and even before that his talk of consequences for failure. Except this voice did not belong to the General. Indeed, now she listened, it sounded more like the Ornamentalist, caught up in some terrible anguish. _'What is going on?'_

Gingerly, wary of her injuries, Seladon pushed herself to sitting. She felt her abused bones creak, stiffened by the stillness of her sleep, but the ache from the bruises had faded (the balms had done their job in that regard, at least). The Threader she found after a moment of looking, on the floor in front of the door, and she slipped from her bed (more creaking, more wincing) to join it, crouching down at its side. Its whole body was rigid, leaf-like limbs extended as far as they could to lift its body vertically off the floor; its gaze was fixed on the door, and it twitched with every sound echoing from without.

"You hear it, too," Seladon commented, and its entire body seemed to vibrate in response. _'That's a yes.'_ She stroked its back with her fingertips, and it made a soft noise of distress—although judging by how it pushed itself into her touch, she was not the source.

How long they sat there Seladon did not know; it felt like hours, but without a visual reference to judge by, she could not accurately say. At some point the sounds moved deeper into the Castle, becoming fainter, though if she strained she could still make out the occasional shriek or anguished wail. Later still a new voice joined them, though it did not carry as far as the others, contributing only the occasional half-familiar note to the echoes. It caught the Threader's attention, and the creature moved toward the door; nearly there it paused, turning back to Seladon to ask without words.

"Do you need to go?" It dipped once in the affirmative. "Go, then. See what's happening."

Once the Threader had gone, Seladon saw no need to remain kneeling on the hard stone. Changing her position proved a harder task than anticipated, however, as the ache in her bones fought against her attempts to stand, and in the end she crawled across the floor, dragging herself back into bed. _'The All-Maudra must stand tall,'_ her mother's voice scolded for it, but Seladon ignored the thought—so long as there was no one here to witness it, she would do whatever it took to return to someplace where, at the very least, the surface she lay upon would be soft.

Another indeterminable period passed then, wherein Seladon listened with ears straining for any clues as to the events transpiring in the Castle dungeons (for that was where they must have been, to sound so muffled and distant). At the same time she listened for the tell-tale scuttling of her Threader friend returning with news; perhaps when it shared it with her, she would be able to speak with Tavra again. She did long for a familiar voice...

At last there came the sound of approaching footsteps, though they were far too heavy by landstrider leaps to be her Threader. There was growling from the figure outside as it fumbled with her door, fighting the key into the lock; snarling in rage when that was apparently a tremendously difficult task.

It was the General's voice at her door, and Seladon's blood ran cold in her veins.

The lock _clicked_, the door swung inward, and Seladon beheld skekVar's hulking silhouette for the second time in as many days. He bore what appeared to be a heap of fabric over one shoulder, which he jostled as he pushed open the door with the other—this, apparently, being the cause for his difficulty with the key, though Seladon was hardly of a mind to consider what it might be.

_'The Chamberlain was wrong,'_ she thought instead. _'The Emperor was not displeased, he didn't **care**, and now he's returned to finish what he started.'_ The General stepped just inside the room, and despite herself, despite Fara's voice in her head, _the All-Maudra is strong_—Seladon cowered, shrinking further into her bedding as she braced herself for another outburst of violence.

And yet he barely sneered at her. Instead he tossed his burden to the floor, fabric landing heavily on the stones, before slamming the door shut, the lock _click_ing once again. The pile shifted, groaning, and with a start Seladon realised it was a person, a Gelfling; it raised its head, and though its face was half-hidden in shadow, there was no mistaking its familiar features.

"Seladon?" it asked, blearily—a voice Seladon knew so well, so dear, so clever.

"_Brea_?"


End file.
